


Flux

by Amet (Ametchu)



Category: Kamen Rider - All Media Types, Kamen Rider OOO, Kamen Rider W (Double), Kamen Rider Wizard, Kamen Rider Zi-O
Genre: Discussion of canon major character death(s), German bird puns, M/M, Make out sessions and implied sex, Spoilers for the endings of all shows listed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-06 17:54:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20511086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ametchu/pseuds/Amet
Summary: “This isn’t real, you know.  It’s all going to snap back into place like a stretched rubber band as soon as Zi-O gets his powers under control.”Eiji and Ankh in the world of Zi-O (and a little bit beyond).





	Flux

**Author's Note:**

> I enjoyed Zi-O, but was also left distinctly unsatisfied by what was done with my faves (several of whom were missing!) so I fix-it-ficced the bits that bothered me the most. I swear I love Ankh and Eiji. I don’t know why I’m so mean to them. 
> 
> Big giant thank you to the always lovely sephyelysian for the beta and to my ironically named friend Vogel for the quick German grammar check.

**Flux**

The first time Eiji sees the bird, he’s six years old. He can’t quite explain _how_ he knows he’s looking a bird when what he actually _sees_ is a skinny, pretty foreigner perched in his grandmother’s pear tree sucking on what looks like a lemon ice with a scowl that suggests it’s either very sour or isn’t making him very happy. The bird’s hair is curled at the tips like a cockatiel’s crest, flopping into his eyes when his head bobs at Eiji as he draws close, long legs covered in silly tight red pants taking up most of the gnarled branch in the middle as he lounges with his treat. 

Eiji remembers being pleasantly surprised that a bird would wear such trendy shoes only to scuff them climbing trees. 

His grandfather’s plane is delayed, so he has an hour to entertain himself in the garden while his nanny makes herself busy helping the cook chop vegetables for his return celebration. Father likes it when everyone is busy, _using their time wisely,_ but it makes Grandfather happy when Eiji spends time outside. Grandfather says a man has to keep himself grounded, and that means getting a little dirt on him once in a while. It sounds good to him, warmer than his father’s lectures about acting respectably. 

It seems to him that being _respectable_ means doing the most boring, selfish thing possible at any moment, and pretending to help people while you don’t. If he’s going to be selfish, he’d much rather dig in the garden and climb trees. 

The bird is a nice change, a shining creature glaring down at him through dark-lined eyes. Sizing him up, where so much of the time Eiji feels invisible, the adults around him looking through him to the Very Important Matters on their minds. He’s left with his nanny and his little sister when Grandfather’s not around, the one dutifully detached so as not to step on his mother’s memory and the other too young to make much of a playmate. 

“You’re not Hino Eiji,” the bird huffs accusingly, pointing at Eiji with his ice. 

“No,” Eiji agrees, nodding amiably, and it’s funny that he doesn’t really mind the irritation in the bird’s voice, an instinctual understanding that it’s all bluster setting in, “Hino was my mother’s name. I’m just Eiji.” 

The bird scoffs and turns away, curls bouncing dramatically in profile. “Never _told_ me that, idiot.” 

“I don’t think you asked,” Eiji says, the words forming automatically with more joy than they should have, smiling up into the branches swaying above as the bird’s head swivels at him again. He wants to climb into the tree with the bird, but he can’t fit on the big branch with those long legs there, so instead he leans against the trunk and asks, “Why have you come?” 

“Where else would I be, in a new world?” the bird complains, “I didn’t realize time had gone all weird at first. Took me a while to find you.” 

“Why did you need to find me?” 

“Because you’re _mine_, idiot,” the bird snaps, slumping back into the embrace of the leaves behind him. 

He mutters something else Eiji can’t hear. 

“What?”

“I _said_,” the bird grumbles, “I guess I’m yours too.” 

The bird’s lips purse, irritated all over again. “I’m only half-here, you know. I don’t fit into the shape of the thing. I only exist because you called me.”

Eiji blinks up at him. “I don’t remember doing that, but—“

He turns when those shiny, pointy shoes _thump_ down next to him, grabbing at the bird’s hand (_talon_, grandfather had taught him, birds have _talons_) before he can stalk past, holding tight to a warm, scaled palm until the bird looks at him again.

He adds earnestly, “But I’m glad I did.”

Something goes stuttery and pained in the bird’s eyes, staring down at him, and for a moment Eiji worries he’s said the wrong thing. Then the other talon reaches down and ruffles his hair so hard he wobbles with the movement before the bird sniffs at him. 

“Here, you can finish this,” the bird says, shoving the ice at him until he takes it, sticking it in his mouth curiously. 

It’s not lemon. It’s _pear_, to match the tree, and that strikes Eiji as too funny not to grin up at the bird around the treat in his mouth. 

The bird scowls at him, but there’s a playful edge to his scorn, a sense of some connection between them reasserting itself. “Shut up, dimples. Nobody asked you.”

He’s too busy eating his ice to remind the bird that he hadn’t said anything at all. 

—-

Time passes. Ankh has a _name_, he’s told, the first time he tries to politely call the bird _Oniisan_ and watches in alarm as Ankh laughs so hard he falls out of the tree. Ankh rolls to his feet unharmed, too amused for the wide eyes he throws at Eiji as he takes Eiji’s shoulders and says his name slowly, emphasizing the hard ‘k’ sound that Eiji’s mouth refuses to cooperate and form without adding the ‘u’ it wants to put there. He gets another hair ruffle for his trouble when that frustration mounts, Ankh’s harsh features softening on a thin-lipped smile that helps ease the sour knot of tension in Eiji’s chest at the failure, fingers unclenching at his sides. 

“That’s how you always say it,” Ankh informs him, producing a cherry popsicle to offer him like magic, “With your stupid accent.” 

He doesn’t sound like he thinks it’s stupid. That’s something else Eiji learns about Ankh quickly—he lies. Badly, with harsh words and tone that don’t match the way his eyes soften when he looks at Eiji, taking it for granted that Eiji will understand. Eiji likes that, the pleasantness of the lie where so many of his family’s lies hurt, all those times his father says he’ll be home when he won’t be, or his stepmother smiles and flutters manicured hands over his hair when there are guests to pretend in front of. 

Ankh takes his hand in warm, scaled talons the way his grandfather takes it in weathered, tan fingers to lead him on an adventure, even as he insists Eiji must be a fool. He climbs in through Eiji’s window to visit, hair burnished orange against the setting sun, and reads him articles about Egypt that Eiji only sort of understands off his phone when the name makes him ask too many questions. He produces popsicles whenever he senses Eiji is sad, laughing at himself and the notion of bringing them to _Eiji_ for a change, and Eiji thinks of the bird as his own private miracle, keeping the loneliness of this big, empty house at bay when Grandfather is too far away on one of this journeys. 

Other people can’t see Ankh. Eiji learns that quickly enough, panicking when his nanny comes into his room one night to scold him for leaving his light on and surprised when she only shakes her head at him when she comes to find he’s doing _nothing_, lying awake without a book or a toy in sight. Ankh is sprawled out on the foot of his bed, phone in hand, pulling faces at her as she gently reminds Eiji that his bedtime is half an hour past and makes her way out. 

She doesn’t ask if he’s okay. Ankh hisses at her as the door closes, reaching out to jostle Eiji’s foot until his smile returns. He doesn’t need the light to read by with a phone in hand, the little screen throwing his features into harsh relief as Eiji struggles to keep his eyes open, lulled by the steady cadence of his voice. 

They can see the feathers he sometimes leaves behind though, the soft, red down that curls at the tips. One of the housekeepers sets his stepmother off when she suggests he must be keeping a secret pet with how often she finds them, and Eiji spends the thorough search of his room making a face as irritated as one of Ankh’s until it’s over. He makes it a point to collect them when they’re left behind after that, filling a little soapstone carved box shaped like a hippopotamus his grandfather brought him back from Kenya with them when he can’t make himself throw them away, likes the feeling of melding a totem of his two favorite people. 

Ankh thinks that’s pretty funny when he catches Eiji adding another one. 

“Hippos,” he informs Eiji seriously, “Are _Gamal’s_.” 

Eiji doesn’t know what that means, but he doesn’t particularly care either, so he nods and tugs at Ankh until he coaxes another story and a soda flavored ice out of him. He curls up on his pillow and feels very much like he’s keeping a secret, if not a pet (he bets Ankh would have more than a ruffle of his hair for him if he tried to call the bird that), and stuffs a feather in his uniform pocket when he heads to school to smile and pretend. It’s a reminder of something _real_. 

“Are you happy?” Ankh asks him one night, eyes inexplicably wide and frightened like he’s afraid of the answer. 

Eiji blinks at him, flounders a little as he thinks of his family and the kids at school he’s never bothered to really get to know and forces himself to speak the truth, “I don’t know. How do I tell?” 

_‘Why does it matter?’_ Eiji wants to ask, when it seems like Ankh is more afraid that he’ll say yes. 

“I think if you have to ask that question,” Ankh says, _relieved_, “You’re not.” 

Eiji’s brow furrows. “You don’t want me to be happy?” 

The phone shuts off, Ankh’s hand lowering as his lips purse, considering that. “I don’t want you to be disappointed when things don’t stay this way.” 

Eiji shakes his head. “Grandfather says everything ends. That’s why it’s better to live in the moment. Are you—? You’re not _leaving_.” 

It’s not a question. It seems too impossible that these quiet moments between them could disappear, that he won’t have this to look forward to after long days of maintaining the _right_ friends at his private school to further his father’s career. Connections are important, his father insists, he’ll need them one day when he starts his own political career and Eiji doesn’t care enough to argue, finds he’s just as good at lying when he needs to. It means less resistance when he shuts himself in his room after dinner (to do _homework_, really he has so _much_), his family convinced enough that he’s on the right path that they don’t feel the need to bother him. 

This is the only real interaction he has, adrift in their world. 

Ankh sounds almost angry when he snaps, “Of _course not_. I’m with you to the end. _Always_.” 

—-

When he’s sixteen his stepmother starts teasing him about girls at dinner parties while they’re pretending for the guests, and he realizes that what he sees when he imagines kissing someone are dark-lined eyes and the way blonde curls turn burnished scarlet when the early morning light hits them just right as Ankh sneaks out of his window at dawn. He doesn’t crave the soft, innocent infatuation he’s supposed to, has no intention of shyly holding hands with some cute classmate just because she smiles at him a few times. He wants the soft rake of talons through his hair and the warmth that seems to radiate from Ankh’s body when he leans close. 

“I know what you want,” Ankh announces abruptly one day while they sprawl in the garden together, making Eiji choke on his ice. He smirks at the startled, guilty glance Eiji finally manages and adds, “Get a little older and you can have it.” 

Eiji gapes, flailing with his ice until Ankh takes it out of his hand to finish it. It takes several seconds to get his mouth working, and what finally comes out is a completely unuseful, “It’s... wait—“ 

Ankh only slants a wry glance his way and says, “What do you think we were like _before_, idiot?” 

Eiji deflates. He wonders about that sometimes, the conviction with which Ankh talks about another life, another _Eiji_ who is and isn’t him. He’s not sure he even believes it’s anything but a crazy delusion on the bird’s part, justifying hanging around. That’s probably a stupid thought. He’s lying in the grass next to a bird who looks _human_ trying to fact check a past life like any one of those things makes the others impossible. 

“I think I probably didn’t stand for _ice thievery_,” he huffs, snatching at the treat before Ankh can stick it in his mouth, and it’s a better distraction than he could have hoped. 

He’s maybe a little less worried about throwing his full weight into their wrestling match than he would have been, letting talons catch and toss him aside. 

“This isn’t real, you know. It’s all going to snap back into place like a stretched rubber band as soon as Zi-O gets his powers under control,” Ankh tells him when they still finally, talons spread across the scrawling writing on his belly where they lie in scratchy grass under the pear tree, blonde hair mixing with his when Ankh’s head turns to look at him. “None of this matters, so you might as well do what you want.” 

Eiji asks, “Who’s Zi-O?” 

“You’ll meet him soon enough,” Ankh says, then corrects himself, “Well. Eventually. He hit the timeline so hard we’re all still scrambling to catch up, aren’t we? Couldn’t just alter things for us like he did to start, had to make sure we were _reborn_ entirely.” 

Eiji doesn’t understand, but he also selfishly doesn’t care, not when Ankh just _promised_—he shakes himself and insists, “Then I guess I’ll have to make the most of it while I can.” 

Ankh’s expression is unreadable, and he’s not sure if it’s enough. 

—-

He’s eighteen, and Ankh still hasn’t made good on that promise. 

Not for lack of trying on Eiji’s part, pushing skinny shoulders into the fluffy mound of pillows at the head of his bed so he can angle in for another kiss that’s wet and demanding and tastes like the sweet watermelon of the last ice Ankh had cheerfully tormented him with. He’s allowed this at least, hooked fingers tangling in his hair to pull him closer as a too-warm tongue chases that flavor in his own mouth. Ankh’s whole body is a furnace, sharp angles catching against him as he presses close, teething that pouty lower lip until it swells. He presses his forehead against Ankh’s, half-blinded by bright curls as he tries and fails to catch his breath in the space between them. 

“_An_kh,” he whines, “I’m going to _Africa_ soon. Who knows how much privacy we’ll have there?”

It’s not so much a matter of going on a trip far, far away where maybe this person won’t see him. He can’t imagine he won’t look up in some market in Somalia and find Ankh lounging at some rickety coffee stall. It’s just going to be a trip filled with hostels and host families, crowds and thin walls. It’s not going to be like home where nobody pays him much mind unless he deliberately seeks them out, where he’s not worried someone’s going to walk in and find him entangled with someone only he can see. 

They’re wasting time when they don’t have much, and it’s driving him crazy that Ankh seems so unconcerned. So under control when Eiji feels like he’s crawling out of his skin for the want of him. It’s not encouraging when Ankh only chuckles, catching his wrists before his hands can wander too far into the collar of Ankh’s shirt, freakishly strong for all his lithe frame suggests he shouldn’t be. 

Ankh nods. “Probably not much.” 

“_Ankh_.” 

He’s pouting. Childishly, petulantly, and he doesn’t _care_. He can feel the little muscle in his jaw jump, and it doesn’t help that it only makes Ankh laugh at him again, angling up for a brief press of lips. Ankh nuzzles close, curling in like he’s trying to soak in the force of Eiji’s emotions as he strains against that hold, utterly bewildered that Ankh can kiss him like _that_ and then so easily shove him away. 

“Don’t,” Ankh murmurs finally, lips flattening unhappily. 

Eiji’s brain can’t catch up fast enough to make sense of that. Don’t push it? Don’t make that face? Don’t wear a scarf tomorrow? 

“Don’t _what_?” 

Ankh sighs, and Eiji finds himself on his back with a lap full of blonde bird mouing at him. “Don’t go to Africa. You’ll regret it. Your father will reach into any joy you find there and fuck it up for you like he always does.” 

“It—okay,” he shoves his elbows into the sheets, pushing himself upright. It has the added bonus of meaning he has to catch hands at the small of Ankh’s back to pull him closer, and he’s not the only one pouting when he looks up, shaking his head. “It’s a _grassroots humanitarian mission_, Ankh. Learning about the locals and building bridges or schools or planting trees, whatever the project leader tells us they look like they need. It’s just something different for a while, to see how other people live and maybe help some of them.” 

“You _bought_ your way onto that humanitarian whatever,” Ankh reminds him, snatching his chin to drag him back when he tries to look away, “With Daddy’s money, because you think traveling to some dustbowl to give back will make you better than him. In an area with that much civil unrest, you can’t just throw money at a problem and expect it to go to the right place. You’re going to get hurt.” 

The talons on his face turn coaxing, petting over his skin and he utterly fails at staying mad when Ankh makes that wounded face at him, trying too hard not to admit he’s just _worried_. 

“Ankh, it’s—“ he sighs, trying to find a way to explain it that isn’t a total lie, wanting to do _something_ for the world with his father’s money that isn’t hollow self-serving bullshit, and finally he manages, “It’s the only power I have.”

“It’s not power,” Ankh huffs, tossing his hair, “It’s pieces of paper you lot started using when you got tired of trading cows firsthand. Humans like to forget that when it’s convenient.” 

Eiji laughs, a little shaky but pushing past it. “I’ve never traded for a cow in my—“

“How about that hamburger steak the cook made for all of you last night?” Ankh asks smugly. 

Eiji scowls. “Shut up.” 

“You think I’m here because of money?” Ankh snaps, and Eiji is thoroughly confused when that leads to angry hands yanking his undershirt out of his pants, “No. I’m here because I wanted _you_, and you were enough. _That’s_ your power. Don’t forget it.” 

He wants to tell Ankh that he can’t believe anyone would think so, all those hollow spaces that open up in him each time he has to pretend making that seem impossible. There’s not enough of him that’s _real_, that’s grounded enough unless he’s in this person’s arms, this person who anyone else would tell him isn’t _even here_ enough to hold onto in the first place. He’s been drifting since his grandfather’s death without a purpose. This trip is his attempt to _find_ one. 

He’s so distracted he misses the beginning of Ankh shucking his jacket until misplaced air alerts him that it’s being thrown over the side of the bed. He spares a thought to wonder if someone walking in right now would be able to see it now that it’s not on Ankh’s body and then he’s utterly blown away when Ankh’s shirt follows, curls fluffing out and then back into formation as he yanks it over his head. Ankh’s chest is pink and human-looking, tan nipples peaked against dusky skin and he’s incredulously pleased when he’s allowed to duck and press a kiss just under branching collarbones, arms coming around him to encourage the movement. 

His own shirts are unceremoniously yanked over his head before he can straighten, fluttering away in his peripheral vision when Ankh’s talons catch his face before he can turn to look, wanting his attention. Hooked thumbs press into the space in his cheeks where dimples rise with his smile, and Eiji turns his head to press kisses into the palms of his soon to be lover’s hands. He trails lips over scratchy scales covering wrist and arm until he reaches softer human skin and the rounding of a shoulder. 

When their eyes meet again, he’s startled by the softness there, the strange fear in dark-lined eyes when Ankh yanks him closer, skin to skin so that the startling warmth of a body that’s here but not is all Eiji can focus on. 

He’s not sure where he finds the daring to lick his lips and insist, “You should show me if you think that.” 

Ankh snorts at him, smirking. “Sometimes you really are your father’s son, you know that? Making your pitch. All right, Eiji. You’re probably not much younger than you were when we met now anyway.” 

“That’s what you were waiting for?!” Eiji gasps, throwing wide, horrified eyes at him, “I’m glad we didn’t meet when I was _forty_!” 

Ankh laughs. “I don’t know what you’re like at forty yet, idiot. We only made it to twenty-five.” 

It’s bait. He’s supposed to ask what that means, what happened to that other shadow self Ankh is so fond of, to let himself be led off track wondering if it was the creation of this (supposedly) unreal world that stopped time or if he died. On any other day he might even fall for it, but at the moment he’s too busy marveling when he reaches for Ankh’s belt and talons don’t move to snatch up his hands, a mouth pressing against his ear to be sure he can _feel_ the vibration of breath and sound Ankh doesn’t even try to stifle when his hands pull it open and reach inside those distractingly tight pants. Talons hook over his shoulder, scouring mercilessly, and he _likes_ that too much to give up. 

He’s surprised and really not shocked at all when Ankh puts him on his back again, rising over him with wings that unfurl in shimmering rainbow hues as he finally gives them both what they want. 

—-

Little Alfreed dies. 

That’s apparently what Ankh was afraid of, remembering a sharp divide in the other Eiji’s life of _before_ her death and _after_, the one more fearful and full of self-recrimination than the other. It’s probably different this time, he’s not alone when the men take him and lock him in a dark, tiny, stifling room, the heat of his lover’s hand holding tight to his more real to him than anything they could think to do to him and it lends him strength where he should have none. His father makes a mockery of all of it, just like Ankh said he would, and Eiji finds the drive to finally enter the political arena because it’s utter _madness_ that anyone would accept such a horrific, messy fate as nothing more than a violence that happens to other people in other places. 

Humanity can do better. Can _be_ better, and if he doesn’t want to be associated with his father’s legacy any longer, that’s all right. He gets himself elected with his mother’s maiden name on a platform his opponents describe as utter naiveté right up to the moment he crushes them in the election. Ankh was right about one thing, his power is in that ability to watch the people around him claw and scrape at one another and still expect them to be _more_. 

He has to reach out his hand to everyone that he can, so the weak can rise up and find their voices again. 

“_Now_ you’re Hino Eiji,” Ankh says approvingly the night he takes his first oath of office with his new name, a red feather pinned to his lapel. 

Ankh’s perched on the edge of the kitchen counter, leg tucked up beneath him as he happily shoves a spoon into one of the quarts of extra ice cream Eiji brought home. They’re an apology for returning well past midnight after he couldn’t quite beg off the celebratory cocktail party, appearing with a selection of toppings and a can of whipped cream to abuse that seem to delight Ankh despite the time. Eiji’s not really hungry, but he’s informed as soon as he walks in the door that he smells and tastes like alcohol and Ankh refuses to kiss him until he’s fixed it, so there’s a mug full of chocolate and strawberry in front of him to finish. 

The house he’s bought is too big for one person, all ultra modern finishes and bay windows that aren’t to his taste at all, but they’re not for him. He doesn’t keep a staff at home, much to the chagrin of his handlers at work, wanting his time here to be free of interruptions. This is his own private oasis, with this precious secret tucked inside (leaving wrappers all over the counter until Eiji comes home to clean up, but he can only ask so much). This is the miracle that gives him strength to smile and deflect when he garners too much interest as a young member of the Diet, trying to insist that his work isn’t about him at all when they ask when he plans to marry. 

His rivals start rumors that he must not prefer women at all like that even matters. Ankh says the internet is abuzz with stories about a handsome reward for a picture of him with his secret boyfriend, and they both have a good laugh at the likelihood of _that_ ever being collected. 

The work goes on, and Eiji reaches out to anyone who will listen, but he never quite grasps a hand as hard as he does this one, trying to snatch a bite of Ankh’s ice cream off his spoon and laughing at the growl that earns him. He gets a taste of it from Ankh’s lips anyway when he’s had enough of his own to be declared decontaminated, leaning against the sink to indulge in the most unglamorous celebration of his achievements he can imagine. There are chocolate talon prints on his collar when he checks the next morning. 

That suits him just fine. 

—-

He returns one evening to find a stranger in his home. 

A stranger leaving it at least, and that’s enough to make his heart stop. The man is tall, reedy and sharp-featured with long, dark hair twisted away from his face on one side that flutters in the light evening breeze as he turns to politely close the front door behind him. Letting himself out, it would seem, and how he got _in_ is another matter entirely. 

Nothing can hurt Ankh. Intellectually, Eiji knows that. This world can barely touch him unless he wills it, and Eiji has seen him walk unscathed through explosions in Africa. But there’s something about this man, his grim expression and his wild green robes, that feels _other_worldly, enough to know that the baubles dressing up the facade of the house have little value when what actually _matters_ inside is invisible to most people. 

He darts out of his car without thinking, without pausing to slam the door shut, and manages to scramble across the dusty drive to catch the other man by what passes for the lapels of his odd clothing, hauling him forward. The man hangs like a ragdoll in his arms, eyebrows raised and mouth flattening, witheringly unimpressed. There’s an impression of coiled violence in his limp frame, his expression assessing, waiting to see what Eiji will do before he responds. 

It feels like an odd deference, and Eiji shakes his head, demanding, “_Who_ are you? _What_ are you doing here?” 

The man smirks, reaching out to smooth away an imaginary bit of dust from his shoulder, just above the feather fluttering in the air. “That is a story for another time, Hino Eiji, another time indeed. I assure you, I mean you no harm.” 

There’s a glint in the man’s dark eyes that says if he _did_ Eiji would know it already. 

The front door slams open before he can open his mouth to respond, Ankh’s skinny body shoving into the frame to glare at him. “Eiji! Don’t be an idiot! We _need him_.” 

The stranger’s eyes shift between Ankh and then Eiji, glinting in triumph, before he simpers, “I’m sure what he means is _welcome home_.” 

Eiji drops him, satisfied watching him stumble as he closes the distance to yank Ankh into his arms, palms closing over his face to tip it up at him. “You’re okay?” 

He seems it, frowning hard like Eiji is being the _biggest_ fool in history, but the stranger rounds on them with a withering eye roll and Eiji can tell that he _sees_, making actual eye contact with Ankh before he warbles, “I too am fine, thank you.” 

Ankh snorts at him, eyes wide and mocking. “_No one_ cares.” 

Then he’s yanking Eiji inside, slamming the door behind them. Eiji manages to spare a moment to hit the lock before he stumbles forward in Ankh’s wake, struggling to catch up. It’s not surprising that Ankh heads straight for the freezer, that there’s a banana popsicle in his mouth before he can be bothered to turn and huff at Eiji, accepting the arms that come around him grudgingly. He sucks on it sulkily, letting Eiji press kisses into the fall of hair over his face and refusing to speak until he’s prompted. 

Eiji means to really consider his words, sensing the delicacy of the situation, but what comes out first is a petulant, “What if he comes _back_?” 

The ice leaves Ankh’s mouth with a pop, and Ankh meets his gaze finally, fingers bright against the yellow of his treat. “He won’t. He got what he came for.” 

The vagueness makes a pit open up in Eiji’s stomach, staring for a long moment before he can force himself to grit out, “And what was it that he _wanted_?” 

Ankh barks a bitter laugh at him. “I don’t know what you’re thinking, but it’s wrong.” 

“Ankh, he could _see_ you,” Eiji reminds him, “That’s _dangerous_. He—“ 

“He’s Zi-O’s minion,” Ankh says quietly, sighing before he takes a vicious bite of his ice and tosses the rest into the sink so he can reach into his pockets and pull out a couple of... somethings to press into Eiji’s palms. “You’ll meet him soon. He wanted me to make sure things went smoothly.” 

Eiji’s brow furrows. It’s serious if Ankh’s willing to waste half a popsicle for it. 

“What are these?” 

They’re heavy, gray plastic casings that make little clicking sounds when they’re jostled like it disturbs some mechanism inside. Nondescript really, and Eiji’s not sure what to make of them when clicking the little buttons on the top of them seems to have no effect. 

“They’re watches,” Ankh informs him, watching him carefully. 

Eiji tries the buttons again futilely. “Are they broken?” 

“They’re unfinished,” Ankh says quietly, biting his lip as his talons slide over them in Eiji’s hands, leaning up for a brief press of lips before he adds, “Think about me.” 

Eiji blinks at him. “Think about you? Why wouldn’t I—?” 

Ankh’s answer is another kiss, slow and wet and far more involved, insistent. Eiji wants to tell him that it’s hard to think about anything _else_ pressed close like this, but he’s sure Ankh would just call him an idiot for pointing out the obvious and he doesn’t really want to pull away long enough to get the words out. It’s more satisfying to pull Ankh closer by the grip warm talons have on his hands, letting the play of lips and tongue lull his anxiety. They’re both still here, holding tight to each other, and that’s all he needs. 

Ankh smiles when they part, talons detaching to show Eiji how the watches have changed, smoothing over the backs of his hands as he lifts them. The watch in his right hand is garish yellow and green and the one in his left is bright red. They twist now to reveal masks on their faces, variations on a theme that feel like he can almost recognize them when he stares. 

“Tatoba,” Ankh says fondly, “And Tajador. The power of OOOs.”

Eiji shakes his head. “OOOs?” 

“You’re supposed to give them to Zi-O when you meet him,” Ankh tells him, “It will be soon. That’s what Scarfy wanted.” 

“What—? Oh!” 

He doesn’t know why it strikes him as so funny, but he laughs at the stupid name, smiling down at the totems in the palm of his hand. They feel... familiar. Important. Something he values as highly as this person, and he doesn’t think he’d give them up lightly. 

“You’re supposed to,” Ankh repeats quietly, talons reaching out to trace the eyes on the mask of the yellow one, “But if it doesn’t feel right, you tell him to fuck off. I’ll deal with Woz if it comes to that.” 

Eiji looks up abruptly. “Can you? Does he _need_ dealing with?” 

“I told you,” Ankh reminds him, “None of this matters. Except—“ 

He taps the watch again. “For this. And those of us who can see beneath the skin of this little pocket world. The fight isn’t out in the open yet, but it will be. You’ll need to decide if you’re on his side or not.” 

Eiji doesn’t understand any of that, but instinctively he shakes his head and corrects, “_We_. If _we’re_ on his side. We’re in this together.” 

He can’t tell if that’s the right answer, Ankh’s expression shuttering down. 

“Until the end.” 

—-

When it happens, Ankh is nowhere to be found. 

Eiji’s not sure what to make of that, sitting comfortably in his small cell for hours, expecting to feel the slip of a scaled hand in his. Maybe he’s grown beyond needing that comfort, or maybe Ankh is trying to give him space to make his own decision when the time comes. Instead he meets Izumi Hina, who is instantly and perfectly in tune with him as they navigate Dan Kuroto’s insane plot to overthrow the government in favor of his mad reign of terror. 

He turns people into actual monsters, and Eiji’s not sure any amount of fast talking on his part will make that right but he has to _try_. Eventually there is Zi-O, swooping in to save them all with a power of conviction greater than anything Eiji thinks that mad king could imagine. It strikes him as poetic for reasons he can’t fully explain. 

When he returns home, disheveled after two days of struggle, he finds Ankh curled in the biggest cherry tree in the garden. It’s long past season, and at this time of year there are barely any leaves to conceal the bird, but he thinks Ankh sometimes just needs to climb into high places where he feels safe and maybe a little less _human_. This tree is big enough that Eiji _can_ climb up with him, tearing his suit pants on the way up and pointedly not caring at all. He nudges until Ankh lets him scoot against the tree trunk and pull that skinny body against him, sighing with the relief of it. 

“I missed you,” he murmurs, pressing his cheek against blonde curls. 

He feels Ankh’s huff through his entire body. “Couldn’t _bribe_ me to get within a mile of Dan Kuroto on a rampage.” 

Eiji smiles. “You know him?” 

“_Of_ him,” Ankh says, glancing up at him, “He’s not usually our problem. Don’t know what he was even doing there, really.” 

Eiji hums his agreement, then asks, “So that boy was...?” 

“Zi-O, obviously,” Ankh huffs, “Woz stopped by. Said you performed admirably, whatever that means. Like I needed an update with it all over the news.” 

Eiji’s arms tighten around him, settling more firmly against the rough bark behind him. He smiles to himself as he asks, “And the woman? She felt... familiar. Comfortable. Like you.” 

“Hina,” Ankh says, eyes distant. “I read an article that said some blowhard politician is giving her an award for her part in ending things today.”

Eiji smiles, scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck. “Maybe so.” 

Ankh stills, expression very serious when he says, “Say hello to Shingo for me when you meet him.” 

He doesn’t understand until the ceremony, shaking the hand of a beaming young police detective, Hina’s _Oniichan_, who thanks him profusely for keeping her safe. Their parents are gone, and all they have is each other now, he says. He’s grateful. 

He looks so much like Ankh Eiji has a hard time making his voice work at first. 

“Did you have trouble finding Hina, too?” he asks later. 

“I can’t be everywhere at once, you know,” Ankh complains, gesturing with a purple grape ice, “She was fine. You weren’t. It was an easy choice.” 

“Fine?” Eiji laughs, “She was nearly married off to a mad king the other day, you know.” 

Ankh snorts, pointing the ice at him accusingly. “Why would you let that happen?” 

Eiji takes a bite out of it in retaliation, chewing angrily as Ankh’s face pinches in outrage. “Let? I was locked in a _very_ small room for hours, you know!” 

“You put your_self_ there sticking your nose in!” 

The argument turns to wrestling, turns to other things and Eiji finishes half the ice before his mouth is busy elsewhere. Afterwards, Ankh’s decided to forgive him enough to let him curl up with his head pillowed on a bony shoulder. It’s not the softest pillow, but it’s warm and he likes to press his ear to Ankh’s chest and feel the whuff of breath through his body, the funny absence of a heartbeat he’s never quite been able to make himself ask about, afraid of the answer. Sometimes his partner feels so unreal, like a ghost that will slip through his hands the moment he’s not vigilant enough. 

Ankh startles him when he murmurs suddenly, “You should invite them over for dinner.” 

“Mm,” Eiji hums, nuzzling closer, “Maybe I will.” 

—-

Eiji forgets sometimes that he’s famous. Ankh laughs at him about his ego being so big he can’t even see it himself anymore, and it sometimes takes him by surprise when he meets someone actually flustered by his presence. It’s cute how nervous Detective Izumi is when Eiji opens the door (_“Shingo,”_ the man insists, _“You saved my sister.”_), holding out a bottle of wine and apologizing if he chose something totally wrong, because this isn’t his area of expertise. Hina pats his shoulder, bowing politely, bolder as she peers around the foyer when he lets them in. 

“Thank you for having us,” she says politely, then blinks at him as he takes their coats, “No staff?” 

It’s an innocent question, but he guesses from the twinkle in her eye that she’s heard those rumors already. He leads them further into the house, down a long hallway with a view of the back garden he can feel her struggling not to stop and stare out into and past the kitchen to the dining room where he’s laid out the food. It’s simple, about all he can manage after a lifetime of cooks and nannies before his travels had expanded his skill set and he’d decided he’d had enough babysitting to learn on his own. He’s hoping he’s right in assuming that these two won’t mind at all. 

“No, I find it’s easier if it’s just me and—“ he swings the door open to the dining room where Ankh’s lounging at the table and pauses, waiting. 

They must have heard _those_ rumors too, because Hina doesn’t miss a beat. 

“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” 

It’s an innocent question, he can see that even if the detective freezes up beside her. Ankh doesn’t really look like him at first, features accented with thick eyeliner and bright curls, but to a detective it’s probably obvious, and it doesn’t help when Ankh takes one look at his expression and smirks. 

Eiji hesitates. “Can you... see him?” 

“Your rumored boyfriend has my face and _monster hands_,” Shingo says flatly, turning to shake his head at Eiji, “No wonder you were so cool under pressure with those things Dan Kuroto was throwing at his employees.” 

Employees, not _subjects_, because Izumi Shingo is the very definition of straight-laced and so unlike Ankh in this moment Eiji can’t help but laugh. 

“They weren’t entirely unexpected, no.” 

“That guy’s a singular kind of crazy,” Ankh huffs. 

It breaks the ice nicely, Hina laughing and bounding over to shake his hand like they’re old friends, just the same as she’d taken to Eiji. She asks, “Can some people _not_ see you?” 

“Some people,” Ankh says loftily, “Are _simple_.” 

There’s a backhand compliment in there somewhere Eiji thinks Hina can absolutely hear. 

Later, after too much good food and drink and company, Eiji yawns and yanks Ankh closer as they gaze out those hallway windows to watch the starlings settle in to roost for the night in the old cherry tree. There are dim solar lights out there playing shadows off skeletal bushes and shrubs, shadows moving in the distance when wings flap lazily, safe in the relatively enclosed space. 

He finally makes himself ask, “How is it that you look exactly like Hina’s brother?” 

It had been the elephant in the room all evening, the Izumi siblings curious but somehow prescient enough not to ask, fearful of setting Ankh off when it became all too clear his temper was quick and scalding. Trust is hard won, and Eiji felt the moment they both decided it could wait, more intent on nurturing this burgeoning connection to each other than interrogating him. He can tell they understand that this feeling of familiarity, like how people tell him family _should_ be, like the warmth he feels when he curls up close to Ankh, is precious. 

Ankh’s eyes are distant, lost for a moment before he mutters, “It’s a long story I don’t feel like telling you. One day you’ll remember.” 

He reaches for Eiji’s hand to squeeze in rough talons and breathes, “It won’t be long now.” 

—-

Ankh is with him when the world ends, curled close with his face pressed against Eiji’s shoulder. 

He hasn’t been home in a while. Can’t really afford to leave the office with the chaos outside, might not even make it if he tried, and if it doesn’t seem like there’s much a politician can do to protect people from monstrous structures splitting the skyline out of nowhere and _actual roaming monsters_ in the street, he can’t just abandon them. He stays as a symbol to the staff that he _cares_, trying to help the police coordinate around the ever growing list of threats. 

He knows it’s over when Ankh appears in his office, crawling into his lap without preamble and clinging tight. 

There’s no transition. One minute he’s clutching at the talons clenched in his shirt, trying to reassure his partner, and the next he’s lying on a lumpy cot in a waterlogged tent on the dig site in Thuringia with Nitou gleefully slamming things around as he gets dressed for the day. The shattered medals are back in a little pouch in his pocket, tucked close to his heart. 

—-

“You sound crazier than usual,” Shotarou says when Eiji finishes the story, sitting forward in his chair against his desk with his hands steepled in front of him. “I feel crazy just nodding along.” 

“I’m aware of that,” Eiji laughs, fingers tapping against the high table he’d been seated at in the heart of the Narumi Detective Agency, “But my usual crazy is me talking about things that have _actually_ happened to us, so I don’t know if that argument has any merit here.” 

Today’s trendy suit has stripes in the horizontal, vertical, _and_ diagonal all fighting for dominance in patches across its slate gray surface, the matching hat thrown onto a peg on the wall somewhere to Eiji’s left. Shotarou’s lips purse at him, eyebrows raising beneath hair that’s a little fluffier, a little darker now than it was when they first met. Eiji’s always loved Shotarou’s vanity, the way it humanizes his senpai when it seems like the man can do anything even if he blusters his way through most of his cases, trying to be cool. 

Shotarou spends another few moments taking his measure and then turns to shout, “Philip! Are you hearing this?!” 

“I am less than five feet from you both, Shotarou,” Philip says smoothly, eyes firmly on the coffee grounds he’s measuring, “Making sure our guests will survive their coffee drinking experience in our home since Terui Ryu is unavailable at present. Of course I can hear you.” 

Philip hadn’t seemed young when Eiji met him, too self-assured to betray that, but Eiji can see it now. He’s had more room to change than Shotarou over time, taller now with a rounder face emphasized by shorter hair, infinitely messier when he’s too distracted to remember to clip it out of the way. He hasn’t gotten sick of his long vests yet though, and today’s is magenta over black and white stripes that make Eiji think of Decade’s armor. It’s probably not a coincidence. 

“I never know if you’re concentrating or _block out the rest of the world concentrating_,” Shotarou huffs, rolling his eyes. “_This_ newfangled machine we totally needed was supposed to be Shotarou-proof, _tee hee_, just push a button and no more screeching about needing coffee when Philip and Ryu are busy!” 

He sticks his finger up, waggling it, “But it turns out not so much. I mean, _I_ thought I did fine, but I’ve been informed that I don’t get an opinion. Loudly. With multiple applications of Akiko’s house slipper.” 

Eiji’s pretty sure the desk doesn’t care if Shotarou pouts at it like that, but the man gives it an honest try. 

“I’m beginning to think you burned off all your taste buds before I arrived to save you from yourself, Shotarou,” Philip teases, arranging cups precisely around the circumference of a round tray in such a way that Eiji would be willing to bet their weight distribution is mathematically perfect. 

(He knows better than to ask after the time an innocent observation turned into a three hour lecture on the effects of centrifugal force on coffee spillage.) 

“Oh, the devil came to save me!” Shotarou crows, chair creaking beneath him as he throws himself back against it, “It’s true though, isn’t it? I can’t even argue.” 

Philip’s smile as he drifts over to hand Shotarou his coffee is just this side of beatific, graceful fingers lingering over his partner’s for a moment before he twirls away to present the tray to Eiji. It’s comforting to be in a place where they know him well enough to hand him his coffee black, with just a touch of cardamom and cinnamon he’s pretty sure Philip only bought at his suggestion. (Spiced coffee is another rabbit hole he’d inadvertently sent Philip down. He vividly remembers sticking around to help Shotarou with his cases for the next _week_ in apology.) 

He nods his thanks and watches as Philip moves to the reception area where Souma Haruto sprawls elegantly on one of the couches, long legs crossed at the ankles. He’s wearing a leather jacket that reminds Eiji of one of Ankh’s over a shirt with little rainbow feathers scattered across it, tight worn red pants that make him wonder if Ankh would approve if he were here or just be annoyed someone was biting his style. Haruto’s face is longer, sharper than the others, with light brown hair that looks carelessly tousled (but Nitou swears is probably cheating with magic), lips quirking and winking at Philip cheekily as he leans over to offer Haruto the tray. 

Nitou Kousuke rubs awkwardly at his curly hair and grins when Philip offers him his own cup, hunched into a flannel and three vests even inside the office. He’s a little careworn, a little clumsy, and Eiji thinks that’s the scientist in him, too preoccupied with his research to worry about it. Like Haruto, he never takes his driver off, wears it like an ostentatious belt buckle and the both of them have rings as big as Eiji’s medals on both hands, just in case. 

Haruto brought them all donuts from Hungry’s, because of course he did. Philip has a thing for sprinkles and anything that makes Philip happy makes Shotarou shout less. The absolutely misty expression on the man’s face when Philip happily curls up in the other chair at the table with Eiji to tuck in is its own reward. 

“I thought you called Gentarou,” Eiji says, glancing back at Shotarou. 

“I did,” Shotarou huffs, “He had _after school clubs_ to manage. Said he’ll call later and see if we’re all still here.” 

“Wow,” Haruto laughs in the corner, eyes wide with faux innocence as he liberates a donut from the pink box on the table, waving it as he adds, “Does he know he’s the teacher? That he can cancel these things when he wants to?”

“And let those kids down? Please,” Shotarou tuts, taking a sip of his coffee. “Honestly I think he’s just too freaked out to be in a room with _you_ since you pulled that timey wimey _one day we’ll be buds_ crap on him.” 

“I was being friendly! I shook his hand and everything!” 

Nitou’s eyes roll. “You were being superior, waving your mad skills at him. It’s fine. We know you can’t help it.” 

Haruto lazily reaches out with a booted foot to kick him. 

“Back to the actual _point_,” Shotarou mutters, “What do you two make of all this? I’ve got nothing.” 

Haruto shrugs. “I don’t remember another world. Just this one. Actually, it’s been pretty quiet lately.” 

Nitou copies the gesture, reaching into one of his vests. “Me neither! I woke up that morning worrying about how we were going to get through sifting those dig spoils before the rain hit them. Figured if I looked really pathetic, you’d help out, Eiji.” 

Eiji sighs. “I don’t know what to say. It all feels too vivid, too _long_ and detailed to be a dream.” 

_‘None of this is real,’_ Ankh had said, but in a way it always _was_. 

“Sometimes dreams are just weird, man,” Nitou says, slathering a donut with mayonnaise that appears as if from nowhere before he shoves a big bite into his mouth and continues, “I mean, I had a freaky one recently where I was backpacking across Tokyo and this kid kept trying to snatch watches off my pack. Watches! Of all things! And I was like, _‘Those are mine, man, I don’t know if you deserve those yet!’_ but he kept going on about wizards and harassing me and—“ 

Nitou freezes mid-chew, eyes widening. 

Haruto’s mouth thins, blinking rapidly and then his hand is flashing out to shove at Nitou. “_Why_ do you let this fool handle breakable antiques, again?” 

Eiji laughs. “He has an archaeology degree and a willingness to learn?” 

Haruto’s eyes only roll harder. 

“Nah, it’s cause I speak enough German to get all your stupid bird jokes!” Nitou cackles, slapping at Haruto’s hands. 

He freezes, shifting to stare at Philip in horror. “Not that we can talk about those here.” 

Philip detaches a delicate mouthful of his frosted donut, sprinkles showering everywhere as he grins and says, “Are we referring to the fact that saying someone _has_ a bird, say, _‘Eiji hat einen Vogel,’_ means you think they’re a bit crazy? Or perhaps that calling someone _‘einen Vogel’_ means they’re an idiot? Or—“ and Philip’s pleased smile tells Eiji he knows _exactly_ how much shouting he’s about to push Shotarou to, “Are we referring to those classic pickup lines like _‘Ich bin gut zu vögeln?’_” 

“And what,” Shotarou asks, ominously still at his desk, “Does _that_ mean?” 

“Literally?” Philip says, smiling to himself as he pops another piece of sugary donut in his mouth, the pink frosting a lighter shade than his vest he seems inordinately pleased with, _“I am nice to birds.”_

“Oh,” Shotarou says, shaking his head and picking up his coffee again, “What’s the big deal then?” 

Philip makes sure he takes a big gulp of it before he adds, “It also means _‘I’m good in bed.’”_

Shotarou predictably sprays his coffee everywhere, hands flapping. “What?! _Why_?!”

“Technically Shotarou, the noun _Vögeln_, the plural of ‘bird,’ is a homonym with the verb _vögeln_, which means—“ 

“_I GET WHAT IT MEANS!_” Shotarou roars, turning accusing eyes on Nitou, stabbing the air with a finger as he demands, “Why would you make him _say_ that?!” 

“_How was I supposed to know he knew that?!_” Nitou bleats, kicking at Haruto’s legs as the man dissolves into utterly undignified cackling. 

“Of course I speak German,” Philip says primly, eyeing him, “If I did not I would be unable to assist Eiji with many of his queries in the pursuit of restoring his partner. The Thuringia dig site is one of the most valuable sources of information we have on the creation and restoration of Core Medals.” 

Eiji beams at him. “And I appreciate that.” 

Philip nods curtly, turning back to his donut and tossing Shotarou a napkin to wipe his face. “I’m a big boy. I can handle a dirty joke.” 

“Aware of that, thanks,” Shotarou grumbles, dabbing at this vest. 

“I did notice,” Philip says, crossing his legs under the table as he contemplates the little stars sprinkled on one side of his donut, “That some of the books in the Gaia Library were askew three days ago.” 

Eiji’s eyes widen. “The day I woke up with these memories?” 

“It would seem so.” 

Shotarou throws his napkin down. “But that library is _in your head_, Philip. How can someone go mix up books you imagine in your _brain_?” 

Philip taps his chin, shrugging. “The actual knowledge is in the Earth. The books are merely the interface I imagine to keep my brain from overloading at the infinite knowledge therein, so—perhaps askew books are an indication that someone else entered the Gaia Library without my knowledge, but was too clumsy or unfamiliar with it not to leave a trail.” 

Haruto taps the side of his cheek with a ringed finger and sighs. “So there _are_ signs of weirdness, but it affected some of us subtly enough that it’s barely noticeable.” 

“How interesting,” Philip says, reaching into the pocket of his vest to retrieve a folded piece of paper he holds out to Eiji. 

Eiji stares at it for a moment before he takes it. “What’s this?”

“The address of one Tokiwa Sougo,” Philip informs him, “He’s not hiding. I checked on him along with the other Riders we know of when we got your call, while you and Nitou caught your flight back to Japan. In fact, the only one I _couldn’t_ find was Decade. And Diend, but—“ 

Shotarou pushes off from his desk to stand beside him, snatching a piece of his donut to pop into his own mouth. “They’re probably together. Anyone else went missing after a big shift, I’d be worried, but with Kadoya—“ 

He waves a hand. 

“We can safely assume he did something naughty,” Philip laughs, “And perhaps isn’t ready to discuss it.” 

Haruto sounds positively fond when he says, “Knowing him? I would agree with that assessment.” 

Eiji chuckles. “And the boy who wanted to be king?” 

Haruto’s coffee cup clacks onto the low table in front of him decisively, ringed fingers reaching out to straighten his jacket as he stands. “Let’s ask him ourselves.”

—-

Haruto accompanies him alone, by unspoken agreement. (Though Eiji suspects there’s a comment Shotarou _wishes_ he could make about some of them having _jobs_ to get to in the morning.) They drive for most of the night then ditch the bikes and walk the surprisingly few blocks between city limits and the address scrawled across Philip’s note in comfortable silence, Haruto’s hands shoved partly into his pockets. It looks like he’s trying to be cool, but Eiji suspects that he really just can’t _fit_ those giant rings in the pockets of his tight pants, and that, like Shotarou’s fussiness, is humanizing when otherwise Wizard himself is consistently, painfully unflappable. 

He doesn’t ask Haruto how he’s been, if he’s _okay_ when they both know that for Haruto he can never honestly say yes to that question again. _Okay_ is enough time between the loss of the person who was his hope that maybe some numbness sets in with the distance. In a way, Eiji is grateful he never has to explain that to his friend. In another, he feels guilty every time he has a new lead to report. He has hope, when Haruto has none. 

“I was in Thailand when Nitou called,” Haruto offers finally, catching his eye, “Not too far. So don’t worry about it. I know you do.” 

Eiji smiles, nodding gratefully. “I bet you magicked your way back, anyway.” 

Haruto pulls up short, shoulders hunching incredulously as he pulls a face. “Of _course_. It’s so much cheaper and I never have to worry about in-flight legroom!” 

They laugh together, and it eases the rawness of everything that roils beneath the surface for a moment. Eiji knows that he should be grateful for the amount of support he still _has_ even if it’s hard. There are hands reaching for him, trying to shore him up, even now. 

“I can talk to the kid, if it’s too hard,” Haruto offers. “I don’t have a stake in this.” 

“It’s not that, it’s just—“ Eiji struggles to find the right words for a moment before he says, “The last time I ran into Zi-O, I was looking forward to going home and telling Ankh all about it. He was such a weird kid, you know? But... also wonderful, because he really _believed_ in people. I was glad to see that, and happy to meet Hina again, and _pleased_ because I knew just how scolded I was going to be for taking stupid risks at the end of the day. My brain can’t quite get off that track. Like if I see one, I’ll see the other. I don’t know.” 

Haruto lets that sit for a moment, looking away. “It sounds like... it was a nice dream for a while. That’s good, Eiji. I’m glad.” 

Eiji can see him wondering if in some corner of that pocket universe there had been a Souma Haruto spending lazy afternoons with Fueki Koyomi with no knowledge of Gates or Phantoms or Dark Sabbaths. Maybe that Haruto never stopped playing soccer. Maybe he was someone so different neither of them would recognize him. Eiji hopes he was happy, at least. 

He claps a hand on Haruto’s shoulder. “I hope one day you’ll remember one too.” 

Tokiwa Sougo isn’t at home, and his kindly uncle sees nothing amiss in telling two grown strangers asking after him that he’s on his way to school and they might catch him if they hurry. When Eiji can’t help but ask about that, he’s told, quote, “You both have such friendly faces.” It’s the same sort of naive conviction about the nature of people that he remembers from that other life, looking into the face of a boy who had in one moment helped a madman tie him down to prevent another escape and in another torn away those bonds because he’d decided, in a painfully earnest, simple way, that he‘d seen enough to understand where Dan Kuroto-_king_ in all his mad eminence had gone wrong. 

Finding Tokiwa Sougo isn’t hard. He’s shouting, trying to run in circles around his bike without dropping it to avoid glancing blows from a friend with spiky hair and prominent cheekbones shouting something about toughening him up. There’s a girl following after them, shouting at Tokiwa’s assailant to stop or they’ll be late, long black hair flowing dramatically behind her as she jumps to slam a fist into her friend’s back. He staggers and whines at her while Tokiwa grins at the both of them. 

“If it’s all the same to you, gentlemen,” a pointed voice calls from behind them before they can step forward, “My Overlord is currently in retirement. I do hope it will be brief, but in the meantime I would humbly suggest that if there’s a possibly world-ending catastrophe, you try to reach one of his predecessors for any backup required.” 

Eiji turns to find a familiar figure there, dressed in asymmetrical green robes with detached sleeves and eyeing them with supercilious wariness. He’s clutching at a book with all the fervor of Philip before a lookup, long black hair falling into his face as he straightens under their scrutiny. It’s a posture that’s protective of Tokiwa, and Eiji wonders if he has any power in this world now that the other one is gone. 

“I know you,” Eiji says, the memory rushing back. 

“Woz,” the man says, a bony hand splaying across his chest in case they missed his meaning, “How pleased I am that you remember this humble servant of the King of Time, Hino Eiji, and of course, Souma Haruto. I don’t believe we’ve met.” 

Haruto’s eyebrow raises. “Charmed, I’m sure.” 

Eiji elbows him. 

“You’re the one who gave Ankh those watches,” he prompts. 

Woz blinks at him in surprise for a moment before he nods. “Indeed. He agreed to my terms in exchange for the delivery of a message, when it was all over. He knew that being what I am, I am immune to the shifting of the time stream, so that if you came looking you would not be left without answers.”

Woz waves a vague hand. 

Eiji feels the breath leave him, trying not to throw himself forward to shake the man for stopping there. He clenches his hands at his side and manages to ask calmly, “And the message was?” 

The look Woz gives him is pitying, flipping open his book to leaf through a few pages, finding a passage near the beginning and nodding at it before it snaps shut again. “He said to tell you that he was happy, because you were there. And... to hurry up, already. I suppose that means something to you?” 

It’s hard to force the words out around the tightness in his throat, against the stinging in his eyes, but he manages to say, “It means everything to me. Thank you.” 

“Of course.” 

For a moment that’s all he can take, feeling Haruto’s hand find and squeeze his shoulder as they turn to contemplate Tokiwa Sougo, not so kingly as he scampers down the path with his friends in tow. Woz watches mournfully, no more pleased by this end than Eiji and if they don’t really know each other, Eiji thinks they can understand each other right now. 

_“I don’t want you to be disappointed when things don’t stay this way,”_ Ankh had said, but how could he not be? 

“How did we get here?” he asks. 

“Honestly?” Woz’ head tips imperiously to eye him before his attention returns to his king, “I think he heeded your words about reaching out a little too closely. His friends were sacrificed on the path to greatness and... My Overlord no longer wanted to walk that path alone. So here we are, back in plaid.” 

“But not you?” 

Woz stumbles in the middle of an expansive gesture, turning a glib frown on Eiji. “It’s my job to watch over him. I can’t afford to happily forget like the others. I suppose I could pretend to be his homeroom teacher, but I fear the absolutely unwavering level of interest I have in My Young Overlord would be misunderstood and cause problems.” 

Haruto’s pinched face says exactly what he thinks of _that_. “Yeah, you should probably not.” 

“You don’t fit into the shape of the thing,” Eiji says, nodding. “That’s what Ankh said in the other world.” 

Woz smiles crookedly, with more chagrin than heat behind it. “No. I do not.” 

An awkward silence descends. Eiji can see Haruto gearing up to disentangle, eyes wide and crossed when Woz looks away for a second, waggling a finger around his head. He’s reminded of Philip, laughing about German puns, and Shotarou throwing wadded up napkins at all of them when Nitou wouldn’t stop putting so much mayonnaise on his food it became unidentifiable. He thinks about Hina-chan and the way her eyes soften when she puts some new totem in her work she thinks Ankh will like, or the quiet sorrow in the detective’s eyes when he pulls the wrong face and Eiji can’t keep the longing off his own. How Date-san capers around his dusty hospital in Ghana, overdoing it to cheer people who have in many cases lost _everything_, or Chiyoko-san who still insists he stop by for tea whenever he’s in town, even Gotou who’s taken to lecturing him on eating properly while he’s abroad like a mother hen. 

“Don’t give up,” Eiji says, ignoring the unimpressed look he gets in return, “Those connections between us, they don’t fade. They’re still there, and if we keep reaching out, eventually the hand we seek will find us.” 

Woz favors him with a sour frown at his presumption, but Haruto is smiling, a thin-lipped, pleased expression that matches the twinkle in his eye because if Eiji can talk like this, he still has hope, and for Haruto that’s all it takes to win the war against the darkness. It had been harder to hold onto before he had so many memories of what life with his partner could be, when there was just as much a backwash of recrimination between them because they’d wasted so much _time_. Zi-O had unwittingly given that back to them, the opportunity to meet when they were both calmer, less apt to snap and so much more ready to see how _good_ things could be between them. 

Eiji jogs his head at the retreating figure of the boy who thought he was king and says, “When he wakes up, tell him I said thank you. For the good dream.” 

There’s so much work to be done still, but he’s grateful for that new hope to hold close in the dark.


End file.
